The Lady and the Bastard
by AnnMore
Summary: Petyr/Sansa AU. 1930's, girls' boarding school, teacher, pupil. Pseudo-incest, blasphemic undertones. 'He doesn't want to hurt her, but he will.'
When she entered Mr. Baelish's study room, not a hair on her head was out of place. Mr. Baelish was sitting in his impressive leather armchair behind his mahogany desk, and his salt-and-pepper hair wasn't in disarray either; indeed nothing about him was. On the contrary, he looked like he has just stepped out of a men's fashion magazine. Sansa had started to wonder if the most exquisite, polished facades actually served to disguise the creatures most radically removed from the ideal they were supposed to represent: the likes of Petyr Baelish and, indeed, her, Sansa Stark. Mr. Baelish, her ever composed arithmetics teacher, was smiling most benevolently at his brilliant best pupil, the high-born, poised, and gracious Sansa Stark. Nobody would have guessed what had transpired in this very room just a couple of days ago; sweat, sweet odor of sex, a girl who was a virgin no more.

'Sansa!' Mr. Baelish exclaimed. Sansa approached him reverently, flaunting her dainty gait she had learned in her ballet classes where she also excelled at.  
'Sansa,' her teacher repeated, and this time he sounded a bit less cordial. Sansa threw him a glance though her eye-lashes, only to witness his scornfully curved mouth. 'Sansa, my girl, I am afraid we shall have to skip the discussion of your latest assignment, as there appears to be a more urgent matter at hand, and of a more immediate concern to us.'  
Sansa had to admit that her heart skipped a beat. Was he bailing out, had his nobler nature gotten the upper hand over his baser one, to her instant and enormous disappointment?  
'Why, what happened, sir?' she whispered, involuntarily giving away the hurt, greater than he had ever inflicted upon her, she realized.  
The corner of Mr. Baelish's mouth remained tilted, but the nature of his smile changed almost imperceptibly.  
'It has come to my attention, Sansa, that you have been behaving in a most inappropriate manner as of late,' he said sternly. 'Or should I say, I am regretfully aware that you have been having an involvement of a most scandalous character. Judging from what I heard about it, Sansa, and I've heard very very shameful things, to say the least. Is there something you want to tell me, Sansa?'  
Sansa looked up incredulously, her cheeks flushed, and she saw that Mr. Baelish's cheeks were flushed no less than hers, as well as wrinkled adorably in the way she very much liked, and also suggesting he was very literally holding his tongue in cheek.  
'I, Sir, I…He is my teacher, Sir.' She took a couple of steps closer to the table, to give him a better view of the bashful fluttering of her eyelashes and her trembling lips.  
'Why, sweetling, do you mean to say that he took advantage of you, of your youth and inexperience, the brute to be damned?'  
Mr. Baelish frowned, his fingertips joined under his chin.  
Sansa reacted to the 'sweetling' by closing the gap between her and her teacher and stood before him as the – ruined – innocence incarnated. She looked him in the eye, the man more than twice her age, who had insisted on taking care of an ugly bruise above her left knee when she had come to discuss her math problems, after she had a bad fall at a ballet class.  
The teacher held her gaze, quirking his brow knowingly. It was Sansa Stark, the impeccably mannered heiress to the Stark empire, who had guided her teachers hands over her thighs, spread open to him… to introduce him to the shame of the school regulation pants, which he disposed of immediately, tsking his tongue with disgust.

'He's only helping me with my sums, sir.'

Mr. Baelish looked like he was deeply satisfied and even more endeared by her answer.

'You are having problems with sums?' he inquired softly.

'I am just not good enough…And he is so kind to correct my work. And to correct me, sir.'

When Mr. Baelish grinned, his upper lip bared a neat row of sharp, pearly teeth, which made him look a bit like a predator, a charming one.

'Do you mean he uses his hands to straighten you, child?'

'Yes,' she whispered in the most innocent of voices.

'We are talking about spanking, aren't we? '

She bit on her lip, pretending to be conflicted. 'Yes, sir,' she squirmed and cast her eyes down.

'Except this is not exactly what I've heard.'

They both were silent for a moment.

'Isn't it more correct to say that you quite as often take his hand to pleasure you as to give you pain, Sansa?'

'Isn't it the same, Sir?' she said simply, her heart threatening to jump out of her throat.

'Such a sweet girl…So keen, so eager.' Mr. Baelish drawled mockingly, a rough edge to his vowels. He growled low:

'Tell me child, when you took his cock, was it pain or pleasure?'

She breathed out: 'It was you.'

His darkened eyes burned on his face which was all fine lines and shadows.

'It was…pleasure. But I was sore afterwards,' she added, knowing fully well this was something a much younger girl would have said in her naivety, feeling sick and thrilled in her stomach.

It was dizzying, Sansa thought, the level of perversion they were reveling in. For a fraction of a second, she was filled with horror at the thought that she might as well have failed to meet the only person who knew her damned little heart so well.  
Sansa looked down in feigned bashfulness, but really to have a look at his crotch and see how much affected he was ; she made sure that both of her purposes were clear to him. Deliberately slowly, Mr. Baelish leaned back, stretched his body out and put himself on display; he sat there in a self-assured way, with his feet set broadly apart.

His beautiful grey woolen slacks sat tight around his slender hips, and she saw how his lips curved up at the widening at her eyes.

Tentatively, she held out her fingers to stop merely an inch from his greying temple.

'On your knees,' he rasped, sitting up at once. That was unexpected, a change in the game. Sansa wondered what elements were now different, given the rules certainly were the same – he was in charge. For a moment, she hesitated, and paid for it fully. Mr. Baelish reached out for her head, clasped his fingers around the nape of her neck and pulled her down by her hair. Once on his lap, he let go of her immediately, to make sure if she obeyed. She did. Sansa's cheek rested on his warm thigh, breathing in the smell of him, male musk, cologne and, quite unsurprisingly, some chalk. She ventured to nuzzle her way around and up, felt the contraction of his leg muscle, and, inevitably, the return of his grasp around her neck.  
His voice was hoarse. 'Do you know how it was to see your blood on my cock?' His words stilted Sansa completely, and when his fingers started to comb her hair, a small sigh escaped her. 'My little slut, my whore.' He spoke tenderly, and as he went on talking, his intonation didn't change much, he only became more insistent.

'Is it what you want, to be my whore?' Sansa tried to nod into his leg, which earned her the first really brutal tug at her hair.

Mr. Baelish laughed. 'Good girl. And I will have to punish you for that, for giving me your sweet perfect cunt…Do you realize how bad that is Sansa, to be my good girl, to be my whore?' he mocked her, with the brutal tenderness he mastered so well, which came so naturally to his hoarse voice.

'Because you have behaved like a whore, haven't you? Begging for a cock, begging for my cock to tear you open.' The second tug lifted her face towards him, she hissed from pain. Mr. Baelish regarded her with a distant yet loving contempt, a teacher correcting an erring pupil. His hand dragged her head upwards till it bumped against her teacher's stomach clad in a white shirt, as expensive and exquisite as his slacks were. She gasped for air, and with another tug her open mouth fell on the warm, straining and pulsing thickness below the belt of the slacks. Sansa felt a scratch forming on her forehead from the buckle, and, simultaneously, a shameful rush of warmth in her lower belly.  
There he let her rest; she felt she was allowed to explore. She didn't close her mouth, and dragged her suddenly dry lips over the heightened flesh, earning a moan from him. Sansa wasn't directly touching him, but his heat still burned on her face.

His hand guided her head now, teaching her the size and the proportions of himself. Sansa planted a kiss, making him breath in and out slowly.

'Were you really in pain?' Sansa dared to look up, his hand fondling her cheek for once. 'Only a bit,' she said, which was true, but not good enough for their game.

'And when I bled, I am afraid I ruined my white pair, your gift,' she added, trying to gauge his reaction eagerly.

His eyes pierced her down with a pained expression; the nostrils widened as if he were trying to catch the smell.

'You filthy girl,' he said in disdain.

Pretending to be humbled, she kept her face down, brushing her nose against his crotch, to notice that the familiar cozy swelling she had rested on had become as hard as to preclude any notion of comfort on her behalf; or indeed on his.

'What did you do with your silks, Sansa?'

'I'm wearing them now, Sir.'

He scoffed, but they both knew it was really a strangled moan.

It was her _coup de grace_ , and she was proud of herself, proud of being his perfect pupil, his perfect whore; for she was exactly that, and had been exactly that even before entering his room for the first time, even before meeting him in the first place. Nothing would have changed this state of things, not even the event of their non-meeting; she would simply have died without having ever lived. Happiness wouldn't have touched her heart, fortunately, she had the pain he gave her, the most real thing she ever had. And his words, the biting words.

'I will have to have a look. It is my duty to teach you...proper manners.'

Her heart leaped in blissful, greedy anticipation, but when she herself wanted to do the same, he only tsked scornfully:

'Now, did I say you were allowed to get up?'

Her teacher spoke to her with the kind of patience reserved for slow learners.

'Sansa, you are just too impatient. I know what you want, but I do not think you have properly realized what you've done. It is my duty as…' he searched for a word, '… your tutor, to confront you with the… consequences of your actions. Otherwise, how am I supposed to teach you?'

His voice wore down to a rough whisper punctuated by pauses.

'Look,' he spat. Perplexed, she watched how his fingers worked the belt, methodically and matter-of-factly; then he unzipped himself. Underneath, he appeared to wear tight blue boxer briefs with a white waistband; his painfully straining cock sat glued to the belly. His one hand returned to tug at her hair again and hold her in check, while the other one pulled down the band just so; she was now staring at the head of his cock, slick, leaking against his stomach, fiercely purple above the white band.

The sudden surge of warmth between her legs made her gasp, her cheeks ran full of blood, and it felt as if the fabric of his trousers left burn marks on her skin. She squirmed, only to be hissed at:  
'This is all your doing, Sansa. Aren't you ashamed? The smell of your cunt… You smell like a cat in heat.'  
Sansa could smell herself too, the heady smell of a rutting animal, and couldn't help to actually be ashamed. She felt her pussy clench and spasm, a sensation similar to an awakening of a numb muscle and deliciously close to an orgasm. She thought she needed so terribly little to come right then and there and moaned. Her hips bucked forward and started a rhythm, completely independently of herself.  
Anything.

'Hand!' his hoarse voice warned. 'Here!'  
He locked her fingers in his firm grasp. 'I won't have you touching yourself.' Sansa whined, but obeyed. Submissive, she lowered her mouth and planted a series of kisses one the back of his wiry hand. Sansa had long been fascinated by his hands, not overly large, yet emphatically masculine hands with prominent veins and outstanding thumbs, and always immaculately groomed.

'Oh Sansa,' he whispered. She was redeemed; she was allowed to lay her cheek on his thigh and watch his strong thumb graze over the wet tip of his cock, brushing off the sheen. She could see yet more shiny beads of fluid clinging to his sparse, curly stomach hair.  
'Little slut.' Solemnly, he brought his thumb to her lower lip, smeared the fluid all over it, reached up to the upper lip, rubbed and caressed her lips in a circling motion till they were tender and sore, then forced itself between her teeth to play with the tip of her tongue. Soon she found herself sucking his thumb, licking at it, taking it all in, hungry and eager at that.  
'Starved child,' he chided, observing her with darkened eyes.  
The popping sound when he withdrew his thumb out of her mouth was indecently loud.  
'Good girl,' he murmured. 'Hungry girl.'  
He was preparing himself for her, getting the trousers fully open, pulling down the underwear, with the thoroughness that was deliberately and utterly obscene.  
Sansa had seen a bare male member before, including the wee willies of her young brothers; in addition to that, a couple of years ago she also happened to catch an involuntarily glimpse of the fierce, fully erect shaft of her father, Lord Ned Stark. The sight had left her with a vague, heavy feeling in her stomach, and the worst part of it was that she wasn't repulsed. Now, if she were to compare the stiff member of her Father to that of her Teacher – and she was, of course, doing exactly that – she had to admit that that of her Lord Father's would probably be on the winning side in terms of the _length,_ but not the _proportions._ Mr. Baelish's glistening and throbbing erection struck her as voluminous, and she again was reminded of her fears as to how she was supposed to fit him in.  
Her teacher helped her out of prostration by taking himself in one hand, her head into the other, rubbed himself along her face, felt her gasp at the sensation and slid his cock smoothly into her mouth. Bucking up once, he groaned contentedly and halted himself. Sansa let out a muted whine.  
'Here my pupil,' he spoke tenderly. 'Take, eat, this is my body.'


End file.
